


I've Got My Eye on You

by gaudy_night



Series: Jim Gordon's Life As a Series of Clichés [1]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-22
Updated: 2008-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-29 02:41:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30149523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaudy_night/pseuds/gaudy_night
Summary: How it all began or: Jim Gordon and Bruce Wayne meet for the third time.
Relationships: Jim Gordon/Bruce Wayne
Series: Jim Gordon's Life As a Series of Clichés [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2219031
Kudos: 10





	I've Got My Eye on You

“But, sir, I’m not even a bachelor, and my wife—” Jim Gordon tried to be reasonable.

Mayor Garcia wasn’t having any of it. “Look, Jim. I’m very sorry about you and your wife. Really, I am. But you need to understand. The people, _your_ people, need to see their new commissioner out there, front and center. Good for morale. You need to represent the GCPD. It’s your job.”

“But, sir—” he protested.

“That’s an order, Gordon. This conversation’s over.”

Jim Gordon looked across the desk at Mayor Garcia in complete disbelief.

The mayor looked right back at him with more than a little touch of impatience. “Please close the door on your way out.”

With great effort, he managed not to slam the door on his way out. Once again, Gordon left the mayor’s office in anger and frustration. It wasn’t the first time he left in that manner, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. ‘I’m really starting to hate my job’ was his primary thought, but he knew it wasn’t the job he hated so much as having to suffer the inane ideas that came from The Powers That Be.

Meetings like this—well, it’s no wonder the city was in such bad shape. Arguing with the mayor over a stupid bachelor auction rather than putting their time and effort to good use like discussing improvements in interdepartmental policies, training personnel, streamlining procedures… the list could go on and on. If Mayor Garcia ever had any hope of looking competent rather than imbecilic in Gordon’s estimation, he had just shot it all to hell.

Gordon wisely waited until he was safely in the privacy of his office before unleashing his frustrations. He wanted to scream, beat a hole in the wall, throw the phone out the office window, but he settled for kicking an empty plastic wastepaper basket across the room. He paced back and forth, steaming. _Great, just what I needed. A stupid bachelor auction._ Jim Gordon was a private man, and he was not about to spend an uncomfortable evening as a ‘rent-a-gent’ with a semi-drunk, regrettable woman fending off her advances. And he certainly did not want the whole of Gotham knowing about Barbara and his impending divorce. She didn’t deserve that. No one did. Most of his officers had figured it out already, but that was different. He trusted them with his life, and he could trust them with his privacy. But everyone else outside of the GCPD precinct… they could all go to hell.

He sat down in his chair. God, he felt trapped. He wished he had someone to talk to, someone to vent his frustrations to, and someone to listen to him. A sobering thought hit him.

There was no one, really.

Becoming a police commissioner was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because now he could finally lead the department down the right path and restore the ideals of integrity, honesty, and loyalty the GCPD should exemplify. A curse because it isolated him even further from his fellow officers. Even Gerard Stephens and Harvey Bullock, two men he’d known from the old days, treated him with what Gordon felt was an unnecessary formality and unnatural respect. Montoya was being… well, Montoya. Her usual mischievous self. She hadn’t changed since his promotion, but he really tried not to fraternize with female officers unless necessary. Barbara had warned him against that. Proprieties to be observed, of course.

And Batman? Gordon laughed despite himself. _He’s as close to a friend as I have right now._ And he hadn’t seen the man in months. He sighed. _I could really use a friend right now. Hell, I could use a strong drink right now._

But there really was no use pouting about it. He was trapped. _No use crying over spilled milk._ He reached for a manila folder on top of the pile in front of him and began another interminable session of paperwork. He sighed.

* * *

“Take off your glasses,” suggested Montoya. She had come this evening supposedly to offer moral support. Supposedly. _Yeah, right._

“I can’t see,” Gordon replied sourly, butterflies in his stomach. They stood backstage. Through the curtain, they could hear the master of ceremonies heating up the crowd and pumping them up, the music blaring, boisterous women bidding with abandon, raucous laughter, and the occasional catcall. Gordon would be on soon, the final bachelor in this godforsaken auction.

“Trust me, lose the glasses.” Montoya was determined.

“Fine.” He took off his glasses, folded them, and put them in his suit pocket. She had already told him which shirt, suit, and tie to wear, so why not? She nodded her approval.

A loud cheer signaled the end of another round of bidding. Gordon panicked, his knees trembling and palms sweaty. He wiped them on his pants legs. Montoya shot him a clearly disapproving look.

He could hear the emcee introducing him, some blather about representing Gotham’s Finest. _Shit, he was next_. He took a step backward, but seemingly out of nowhere, Bullock appeared beside him, putting his hands on his shoulders. “Steady, boss.”

Gordon nodded weakly.

Montoya looked at him a little worriedly. “Commish, you ready? You look like you just got shot full of Novocain. You’ll be fine.” She tried to be reassuring.

Bullock nodded encouragingly.

“Thanks a lot,” Gordon muttered.

The emcee’s voice came louder, “Joining us tonight for the first time to support this charity event to raise money for the Gotham Youth Center and our grand finale… _Commissioner Jim Gordon!_ ”

The crowd gave a loud cheer and Bullock gave him a little push. Gordon stumbled out onto the stage, trying not to trip over anything. The enormous spotlight beaming directly into his eyes didn’t help his blurry vision. He flinched and tried to look away.

The emcee was cajoling him to strut his stuff. Gordon turned to him, jaws clenched. He hissed, “I’m not doing that.” Sitting near the stage, Garcia was frowning. _Do it_ , he mouthed the command. _Damn, I hate this job_. Gordon clenched his fists and walked out to the edge of the catwalk.

The cheering, whistling and hollering only grew louder. Gordon felt his ego should appreciate this much-needed boost, but found it only made him more nervous.

The bidding commenced. The emcee quickly scanned the room. _One hundred dollars! Two hundred dollars! Going once… three hundred dollars!_ Some part of Gordon’s male pride dictated he didn’t want to go for less than a couple hundred bucks. A thoroughly respectable amount. The other part wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole. He felt hot and uncomfortable under the unmerciful glare of the spotlight. He could feel beads of sweat gathering at his temples. He reached to loosen his tie, inadvertently bringing on a bigger wave of hooting and hollering. He immediately dropped his hand. _Three hundred fifty!_ At the corner of his eye, he saw Montoya sitting at a small table with Bullock. She was laughing hysterically. _Moral support, eh?_ Bullock looked back at him apologetically. Montoya nearly fell off her chair.

“Serves you right,” Gordon muttered under his breath.

He stuffed his hands in his pocket, willing for all of this to end. He caught the eye of a middle-aged woman sitting near the stage, looking him up and down appraisingly, her eyes stopping at the area immediately below his belt buckle. She smiled slowly, admiring the bulge in his pants. Gordon looked down and hastily pulled his hands out of his pockets. She looked disappointed but raised her paddle to bid nonetheless. _Four hundred dollars!_

Gordon looked over to Bullock for help. He was too busy slapping Montoya on the back. She was laughing so hard she was now sputtering for air to breathe. Bullock looked at her in concern. “Chummy, aren’t we,” Gordon observed. He stood there, waiting for the proverbial hammer to fall. He shifted his position, inadvertently drawing more lewd whistles from around the room.

The emcee cheerfully continued. _Four hundred fifty!_ Gordon squinted to see who was throwing away their money tonight. He raised a hand to his eyes to get a better look at his would-be companion for the evening.

And that’s when the bidding war began. It was clear there were three women who were absolutely determined to take him home that evening. A blond at the back of the room—Gordon couldn’t quite make her features out, a brunette sitting to his far left, and a redhead sitting near the stage to the right were bidding furiously against each other, glaring daggers at each other and drawing all sorts of reaction from all over the ballroom. Gordon felt he should be flattered, but petrified was more like it. He stood frozen to the spot. _One thousand dollars! Two thousand dollars! Five thousand dollars!_

Gordon was all but forgotten on stage, as everyone’s eyes shot back and forth between the redhead, brunette, and blonde. Three beautiful women egged on by the emcee.

The blonde cried out, “Six thousand dollars!” The crowd gasped.

Not to be outdone, the brunette raised her paddle. _Six thousand five hundred dollars!_ The crowd cheered.

The emcee was spluttering at the scene unfolding in front of him. All eyes turned toward the redhead at the front of the room. She gave a firm nod to the emcee. The crowd _ooh_ ’d.

“Seven thousand dollars, folks! Seven thousand dollars from the beautiful redhead! Seven thousand going once… Ladies?” He looked to the blond and the brunette. The crowd cheered, delighted at the unexpected turn of events. “Going once… going twice…”

“Ten thousand dollars!” Unexpectedly, a new voice from the back of the room joined the bidding war. The room exploded.

* * *

Onstage, Gordon grew more and more nervous. _Ten thousand dollars?_

He remembered Montoya’s horror stories on the car ride to the bachelor auction. They had decided to carpool since Gordon, as Montoya so kindly pointed out, probably wouldn’t be needing his car tonight. “If you know what I mean,” she’d added with a mischievous grin. He barely restrained himself from strangling her. Cheeky, that one.

Bullock had just shrugged. “She’s right, you know.”

Then Montoya had decided to take it upon herself to educate him on the unspoken rules of the bachelor auction. “Sir, women come to these events for more than good fun. How do I put this delicately…” she wondered. “They’re looking for a good time, a _very_ good time—” here she looked to see if Gordon understood the implication. By his incredulous expression, he certainly did— “and they expect a lot out of their money. They’re looking for _more_ than an escort for the evening. It’s common knowledge. Everyone knows.”

“No one told me. I never—”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m sorry, sir, but that’s the way it goes. So listen carefully, first base is around one hundred to two hundred dollars. Three hundred tops. Well—” she considered for a moment “—give or take fifty dollars. And then second base starts at around one thousand dollars. Third base, well, fluctuates between two thousand dollars to three thousand dollars…”

“Fluctuates?” Gordon had looked dubious.

“Inflation,” Montoya had explained.

“Immoral is more like it,” he grumbled.

She ignored him and continued, “And a homerun starts at five thousand minimum. Did I get it right, Harvey?”

The driver had solemnly nodded. “More or less.”

Gordon had looked from Montoya to Bullock to Montoya. “You’ve got to be kidding me. This whole thing is nothing more than a sham for…” his voice trailed off.

Montoya had said, “Well, sir, these women do expect a lot, and they’re not satisfied until they get their money’s worth.” She had looked at him with a touch of sympathy, “Good luck, Commissioner.”

* * *

Gordon swallowed hard. _So what do_ ten _thousand dollars get the lady exactly?_ He turned to look at the emcee in a panic to stop this insanity, but he was too late…

“Sold! Sold for ten thousand dollars!” The emcee announced with tremendous glee. “Commissioner Gordon, everyone!” He looked at Gordon with a very pleased expression on his face, and the entire room exploded in a huge round of applause.

Immediately Gordon was swept away and led off the catwalk. Standing backstage, he was congratulated and teased good-naturedly by the other bachelors waiting for their dates to claim them as well. A few minutes later, Montoya and Bullock approached him to add their congratulations, with Montoya still wiping the tears from her eyes from laughing so hard. She mouthed naughtily, “Have fun!” and went off with Bullock. Mayor Garcia approached him with a “Well done, Jim.” Gordon resisted the overpowering urge to punch him out.

Then he waited. He stood, the feeling of dread in his stomach more acute than ever. His hands were clammy and cold. He loosened his tie and undid a button near his collar to ease the tension. He watched as one by one, various women came backstage to claim their prize for the evening. The middle-aged woman he saw near the stage earlier that evening approached him. Gordon gulped. She made eye contact and gave him a longing smile. Then she walked past him and up to another man, claiming him. Gordon let out a deep breath. _Thank God. Better you than me, pal_.

Amidst the loud voices and dull sound of chatter, Jim Gordon stood like a man waiting for his execution. _Dead man standing_ , he thought wryly. For the first time in his life, he truly understood what the term _sweating bullets_ meant.

Thirty minutes later, Gordon was still waiting. He was the last one, and almost everyone else was gone. He couldn’t quite decide if he should feel relieved or offended. He reached for his phone to contact Bullock for a ride home, which unfortunately meant Montoya would probably be there as well when a voice from behind him startled him.

“Commissioner Gordon?”

Gordon closed his eyes. _Damn._ He put his cell phone away and turned to face his doom. _Wha_ … “Mr. Wayne?”

The infamous Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s favorite son, stood before him, a genuine smile on his face. He extended his hand to shake Gordon’s. Gordon did the same. The billionaire spoke, “Congratulations! The man of the hour!”

Gordon demurred, “Well, I don’t know about that.” But he smiled as well. He looked over Mr. Wayne’s shoulder, but no one else was coming for him. _Wonder what happened…_

Wayne turned his head to follow Gordon’s line of vision. “I’m sorry, Commissioner. Am I boring you?” he teased good-naturedly.

“No, not at all, Mr. Wayne,” Gordon sputtered, but he recognized the good humor in the other man’s eyes. “Well, I was just, uh…”

“Looking for someone?”

“Not sure if you saw what happened, but some woman just paid ten thousand dollars for me this evening,” Gordon replied. It sounded just as ridiculous saying it out loud. “Waste of money if you ask me,” he added.

Wayne laughed in delight. “A woman who knows exactly what she wants! This I have to meet. What does she look like?”

“I didn’t get a good look,” Gordon said apologetically. “I didn’t have my glasses on.”

“I see.” Wayne shrugged. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to wait.” He looked around for a moment, found a chair, and sat down. He motioned for Gordon to do the same. Gordon sat. They were now alone.

In the brief silence, Gordon wracked his brain wondering what to talk about. _Cars? Girls? Mansions and penthouses? Russian ballerinas?_ He shook his head. How does one go about making small talk with a billionaire?

Wayne rescued him. “Tell me about yourself.”

At first, he hesitated, but with Wayne encouraging and prompting him, Gordon found himself relaxing as they spoke about his work, his kids, studiously avoided the topic of his marriage, the GCPD in general, the detectives at the precinct that made his job easier as the new commissioner…

Wayne listened intently, showing great interest in whatever Gordon had to say, laughing and nodding his head at the right places.

Gordon smiled and instantly felt self-conscious. _Surely Mr. Wayne had no interest in the dull life of a police commissioner_. A nervous habit, he instantly looked at his watch. He couldn’t believe an hour and a half had just passed. It seemed like mere minutes.

Wayne saw him look at his watch, and an indiscernible expression flickered briefly over his face. It was gone before Gordon could identify it.

Gordon looked apologetic. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Wayne. I’m enjoying the conversation, really, but I think I’m supposed to be somewhere else…” he trailed off. He never was one to shirk duty.

“Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money,” Wayne agreed, reading his mind. He looked thoughtful for a moment. “You know, the rule is, if they don’t claim you within an hour, you’re a free man.”

Gordon sat up straight. He looked hopeful, “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely not.”

Gordon’s face fell, and Wayne laughed out loud.

“Listen, why don’t we grab a late dinner. I know of a great place that serves the most wonderful tiramisu.” Wayne waited for his response.

Gordon hesitated at the invitation.

“Were you planning on going home early, then?” Wayne questioned, a slight smirk on his handsome features.

Gordon shook his head, a little embarrassed. _Damn that Montoya for planting thoughts in his head_. “I really don’t know.” He thought of the empty house waiting for him back home, but a late dinner with Bruce Wayne… he knew Garcia would kill him if he refused Mr. Wayne… but this was all too surreal. His face must have betrayed him.

“Not at all, Commissioner. You’re a busy man,” Wayne stood up, and Gordon followed suit, feeling both relieved and disappointed.

“It was a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Wayne,” Gordon said sincerely, hoping he wasn’t sounding presumptuous. If he recalled correctly, this would mark the third time in his life he’d ever crossed paths with the illustrious Bruce Wayne.

“Bruce.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Call me Bruce,” Wayne corrected him.

“Er, okay, Bruce. And it’s Jim or Gordon, whatever you prefer,” he offered.

Bruce smiled, gripping his hand warmly, holding onto it a nanosecond longer than necessary. Gordon looked puzzled but nodded. “Good evening, Mr. Wayne, er, Bruce. And thank you for the good company.” He added politely, “Be seeing you.” He gave a small wave and walked away.

Bruce Wayne watched as Jim Gordon walked off the stage and out into the night air. The billionaire had a deeply satisfied expression on his face.

_Yes, you will._

* * *

Later that evening, Jim Gordon found himself walking home by foot. He convinced himself it really wasn’t all that far, the forty-minute walk, but his feet were beginning to protest. He reached for his cell phone to try Bullock again, but it kept going straight to voicemail. _Damn that Montoya_.

It was dark, and common sense dictated he should contact the precinct for an officer on duty or even a cab company to pick him up, but he wasn’t looking forward to revealing the semi-unfortunate details of this evening with anyone else. Montoya would get it out of him sooner or later, but he trusted her to keep it private between them two. And Bullock. And Stephens. _Damn_.

He walked quickly down the street, looking behind him every now and then for suspicious or unusual behavior. He was alone. He breathed a sigh of relief. The night air was wonderful, really. It was cool, but not cold. He found himself enjoying this solitude.

Suddenly, he felt his hackles rise. He quickly turned to see a car approaching him silently. A shiny, black limousine pulled up beside him. Gordon immediately reached for his gun… it wasn’t there. He tensed as the tinted window rolled down. He nearly collapsed in relief when he saw who it was.

“Hello, Commissioner,” Bruce Wayne greeted him as if this were a regular occurrence, the two of them meeting on a deserted street in the middle of the night.

“Mr. Wayne, er, Bruce,” Gordon acknowledged.

“What are you doing?” Wayne asked innocently.

Gordon pointed down the street and toward the general direction of his house. “I was just on my way home.”

Bruce motioned him in. “I’ll give you a lift.”

Gordon automatically answered, “Really, it’s not too far.”

Bruce looked at him in the eye, serious for once. “Jim, get in the car,” he ordered and opened the door.

Gordon climbed in beside him.

Bruce looked at him, “Where to?”

“The precinct.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow at the sudden change in the destination but gave the chauffeur the nod. The GCPD precinct, it is.

They sat in near darkness as the car moved toward the precinct, Gordon sitting like a little boy in his Sunday best at church.

Total silence. Gordon felt unaccountably nervous. Bruce just watched him.

Within minutes, they arrived at the front of the precinct. Gordon reached for the door handle to let himself out.

“Thank you, Bruce—”

Bruce looked at him curiously, “Are you sure this is where you want to be dropped off? We couldn’t give you a ride home?”

Gordon stammered, “Uh, no, thank you. Have some things I need to do.”

Bruce clearly wasn’t buying it. Gordon felt an irrational embarrassment in his being. It really wasn’t a big deal, but since he didn’t live in the most fashionable part of town…

Once again, Bruce read his mind. “Gordon, I don’t care where you live. I _do_ care if you get there in one piece.”

Gordon couldn’t argue with that. He sat back down and gave the driver his address. The driver looked to Bruce for approval, and he received a nod. He pulled away from the curb and turned the limousine toward Gordon’s neighborhood.

They sat in silence once more, but a more comfortable one for Gordon. He felt incredibly silly.

Bruce gave him a smile. “Did I tell you about the most delicious tiramisu I had the other day? It’s simply to die for.” The expression on his face was so ridiculous that Gordon just had to laugh.

He thought, _This evening had been—well,_ surreal _doesn’t begin to cover it._

Bruce smiled and leaned forward to give the chauffeur yet another address, and the car immediately took another U-turn. Gordon saw they were heading toward downtown Gotham.

Destination: _tiramisu_.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 11/22/2008 on LiveJournal and possibly FanFiction.Net.
> 
> Written for snapini.


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